Lord of My Heart (3 page)

Raging terror surged in Guy. “That’s treason, you—” He banged Aimery against the wall.

Aimery bit back a cry.

Guy forced himself away from his son before he did serious damage. He kept his eyes on the opposite wall as he struggled for control. William’s claim to
England
hinged on his blood-link to kings Ethelred and Cnut through his grandmother. Even though she had merely been widow of both kings and thus brought no royal blood to her grandson, it was not a matter open to debate, even by Aimery, who was William’s much-loved godson.

What would Lucia say if she heard Guy had risked a healing wound to assert his will? A lot, and none of it pleasant. But Lucia was too gentle to raise Norman men. See, now that he’d stopped handling the boy like an anxious nurse, there was a spark of life in him. He swung back.

“I’ll have no son of mine play the traitor!”

“Fine trust in me you show!” Aimery shouted back. “By the Rood, I killed for the king, didn’t I, like a good Norman vassal? The English came to withstand an invader, and I rode them down. I drove my spear into them. I sliced off arms and heads . . .” His teeth clenched, and he breathed deeply and raggedly, as if he had come straight off that battlefield.

“And you liked it, did you?” Guy asked maliciously.

“What?”

Guy closed the distance between them. “Got a taste for hunting peasants, have you? Why else do you want to stick around, hey? There’ll be lots of chances for that as William shows the English whose hand is on the bridle. Women and children, too, I shouldn’t doubt—”

He blocked the swung fist, but only just. Aimery was of a height now and strong. God, he was strong. Gripping his son’s wrist, Guy had to fight control where so recently he had won or allowed to win.

The nature of the struggle changed. Neither of them brought the other hand into play, for that would involve Aimery’s weakened shoulder. Neither tried to maneuver for better torque. Guy’s sword-calloused hand gripped just below his son’s hand, and just above a heavy bracelet. His muscular arm could not prevail against an arm as strong.

They were deadlocked.

They were equal.

Eye to eye, they acknowledged the fact.

Aimery took a deep breath and relaxed. There was even humor in his expression, a touch of color in his cheeks. “You can let me go, Father,” he said levelly. “I apologize.”

Guy released him cautiously, easing the ache out of his fingers. Aimery moved away, rubbing absently at the bruised flesh of his wrist. “The truth is,” he said softly, “and it’s very unworthy of a Norman, I’d be happy never to see a drawn sword again. But I can’t run from it. If I’m here, perhaps I can help.”

“Help? Help who? Hereward?” This was Guy’s greatest fear, that Aimery would join his boyhood mentor. Hereward of Mercia had been out of England at the time of the battle but was rumored to be back now, swearing to throw the Normans into the sea.

Aimery turned in surprise. “No.”

“You don’t plan to help him in his resistance to William?”

There was a bitter laugh. “After all I’ve gone through, you think I’ll turn traitor
now?”

“Whom then?” Guy asked, genuinely puzzled. “Whom do you plan to help? William? I’ve told you what kind of help he’ll want from you.”

Aimery moved away from the window to roam the room aimlessly. “The people,” he said at last. “I think I can help the English people to adjust to the new ways. There’s something good and fine in this country. It would be a sin to see it trampled under armed feet, especially when they cannot prevail and throw us out. I understand both sides. No one else seems to. The English think the Normans are barbarians. The Normans think the English customs are fanciful nonsense.”

“And whose mind are you going to change?” Guy asked in exasperation.

A smile twitched Aimery’s lips as he looked ruefully at his father. “Everyone’s, I suppose.”

Guy wanted to throttle him. “The only thing they’ll have in common is the desire to take you apart bit by tiny bit.” But that smile had defeated him. It was the first real smile he’d seen on the boy’s face in two months.

“You can have Rolleston,” he said abruptly.

Aimery colored with astonishment. “But Roger . . .”

“I haven’t said anything to him. There’s land over near Wales. He can have that. Unless the Welsh undergo a miraculous change of nature, there’ll be all the fighting he could want on the border.”

Aimery was dazed and a little suspicious. “Thank you.”

“Rolleston was Hereward’s,” Guy said gruffly, “so at least you know the place. You should be able to keep it profitable. I’ll have your word, though, that you’ll have nothing to do with that madman.”

Once, it would have been a command, but now Aimery took time to consider the point. Guy knew he now faced a man. He felt a pang at the loss of his last child and a flame of pride at what he had become. By the Blood but Aimery had courage, the deep kind that was more than the ability to kill and be killed.

“I give you my word that I will do nothing against the king,” Aimery said at last. “But if I can influence Hereward to make peace with William, I will.”

Exasperation returned. Were they going to start all over again? “He’s a man with power over men, Aimery,” Guy warned. “Get within his orbit, and you could find yourself doing more than you intend.”

“You don’t have much faith in me, do you?”

“I’ve met the man,” said Guy flatly, “He’s mad, but it’s a special kind of madness that burns like a beacon in the dark. If he’s set his hand to opposing William, he’ll hold to it to the death. God knows how many others he’ll take to hell with him. I want your word you’ll not seek him out unless it’s to make peace with William. It’s either your oath on that or you go home in chains.”

His son walked the room again.

“I will do it, Aimery.”

“I know,” said Aimery casually. “Mother has often remarked how much I take after you.”

A bark of infuriated amusement escaped Guy. The urge to knock the cub silly was overwhelming, even if he might have to call in a half dozen guards to get the job done.

Aimery faced him, and that humor was back to warm Guy’s heart. “You have my word, Father.”

Guy was taking no chances. He took out a small ivory reliquary from the pouch at his belt and opened it to expose the fragment of the true cross it contained. “On this.”

With only a quizzical look, Aimery placed his hand on the box. “By the Holy Rood,” he said without hesitation, “I swear I will not contact Hereward or seek a meeting with him unless it be to bring him to William for pardon.”

Guy nodded and put the reliquary away. His hand moved to the heavy gold band on the third finger of Aimery’s right hand. “You had best give me the ring.”

Aimery pulled his hand away. “No.” He immediately softened his tone. “I’m sorry, Father, but I cannot give it up like that. I’m not Hereward’s man as a ring-friend should be, but I hope to be able to do well for both him and the king. If the day comes when I cannot, I’ll return the ring to Hereward.”

“But not in person.”

“But not in person,” Aimery agreed.

Guy took a grip on his son’s shoulders, but gently. “I still think it would be wiser to knock you down and drag you home.”

Aimery shrugged slightly.
“Wyrd ben ful araed.”

“And what does that mean?” Guy asked tightly. The last thing he needed was a reminder of his son’s split heritage.

“Fate cannot be changed,” Aimery supplied. “And my
wyrd,
I think, is in England, Father.”

Guy let go of him before he gave in to the temptation to drive his fist into Aimery’s bandaged shoulder. “By the Hounds of Hell, I wish I’d never given in to your mother’s silly idea of sending you to this cursed land!”

“Well,” said Aimery lightly, “sometimes so do I. But it’s too late now to change anything.”

Before his father could respond to that, he was gone.

Abbaye des Dames, Caen, Normandy

March 1068

Madeleine hurried along to the abbess’ chamber, raising the skirts of her habit to run the last little way. She had been in the herb garden instead of the scriptorium and so had not been easily found. There would be penance to do for that.

She would be in trouble for running, too, of course, but hopefully there was no one around to see the misdeed.

She took a moment to catch her breath and straighten her veil, then knocked on the oak door. At the command, she entered, and halted in surprise. Waiting for her was not the abbess, but Matilda, Duchess of Normandy. She was, Madeleine remembered, now uncrowned Queen of England as well.

“Come in, Sister Madeleine,” said Matilda.

Madeleine’s first alarmed thought was that the abbess had despaired of teaching her decorum and had brought in the governor of the duchy to discipline her. Or even worse, to force her to take her vows. Madeleine was delaying the matter. There
had
been fighting in England; her father and brother had been richly rewarded; there was still hope . . .

But surely such personal matters could be of no interest to the duchess.

Madeleine was gestured to sit on a small stool close to the duchess’ chair. As she did so she surreptitiously studied the lady. The duchess was the patroness of the Abbaye and therefore not unknown to her, but Madeleine had never been so close to her before. She was tiny and delicately made. It was hard to believe she was married to the frightening duke and had borne him six children, but she had a determined nose and chin, and very shrewd dark eyes.

“I have sad news for you, child,” said the duchess bluntly. “You received word that your father was wounded at the battle when the duke went into England. Though serious, the wound was not expected to be his death, but Our Savior had other plans. The wound never healed as it should, and from that or other cause, he was taken by a seizure some months past and has gone to his heavenly reward.”

The news had been clear from the first, but the lengthy telling gave Madeleine time to adjust to it. She felt great sadness that she would not see her father again, but she could not help wondering if this loss would help or thwart her dreams.

“I will pray for his soul, Your Grace,” she said, keeping her eyes properly lowered to her hands in her lap.

“There is more,” said the duchess. Madeleine looked up. “Your brother, Marc, was drowned two weeks ago crossing from England.”

Madeleine felt numb. Marc, dead? A tingling spread through her body ... A goblet of wine was pressed into her hand and she gulped from it, feeling the world come back, and grief, and the end of hope.

Had Marc drowned even as he came to buy her freedom?

What a thing to think when her sorrow should all be for a young life cut short in a time of triumph.

A tear trickled down her cheek, and she brushed it away. “I will pray for his soul, too, Your Grace,” she said, not knowing how else to respond. She took another drink of the rich red wine, then put the goblet down on a table.

It occurred to her for the first time that it was extraordinary the Duchess of Normandy should be here to give a simple novice this sad news. She looked a question.

“At your father’s request, child, you are now under the wardship of my lord husband. He has directed me to talk to you of your future.”

“My future?”

“Are you aware, child,” said the duchess, “that after the king was crowned in England he gave a barony to your father in recompense for his long and faithful service?”

Madeleine nodded. That barony had been the linchpin of her dreams. “Baddersley,” she said.

“It is apparently a fine and prosperous parcel of properties, centered close to one of the old Roman roads that run through England. It was part of the lands of a man named Hereward—a son, I believe, of the old Earl of Mercia. My lord husband is being merciful to those who raised their hand against him once they pledge allegiance, but this Hereward is an unrepentant rebel and so has lost his estates. The question is, who is to hold Baddersley now?”

“And Marc is dead,” said Madeleine numbly.

“The property is to be yours, Madeleine.”

“Mine?” she queried blankly. “It is to come to the Abbaye?”